


Taverner's Arms

by in_lighter_ink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 13:04:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/in_lighter_ink/pseuds/in_lighter_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes war stories are only three words long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taverner's Arms

_Taverner's Arms, 8?_

That was all the text ever said, all it ever needed to say. It's meant, variously:

 _Flat smells of bananas and ammonia. Again. May kill Sherlock._

and

 _Fuck this paperwork: I need a pint._

and

 _Bad shift. Can't face Himself trying to deduce why I care. Don't know myself._

and

 _Bad shift. Thought I'd already seen all the ways people can hurt each other._

and

 _He would have been twenty-eight today._

and

 _She was only nine._

Always, it meant _Mayday._

They'd both made their lives answering the distress calls of strangers; answering each other's was a matter of course. Neither thought anything of the frequency with which those calls were made.

On other nights, in other pubs, they joined a pack of other Yarders and swapped stories of on-base prank wars and useless departmental briefings, you-have-to-laugh bureaucratic nightmares and that time then-PC Lestrade, new to London, got lost on his beat. ("You never, ever tell Sherlock that one, hear me?" Lestrade had slurred, pointing an unsteady finger at John. John, barely recovered from the fit of giggles the story had induced, had sworn an oath, with all the earnestness and solemnity that alcohol could muster.)

The Arms, though, was well away from Scotland Yard: it was for when either John or Lestrade needed companionable silences more than funny stories to erase the day. It was their regular pub, their regular booth in the corner, their regular moment of awkwardness while they decided who needed the wall at his back more. (Sometimes, there was no question. Those were the evenings John arrived limping or Lestrade had the distinctly rumpled appearance of a man who'd spent too many nights at his desk.)

It was for war stories that were only three words long.

 _Taverner's Arms, 8?_


End file.
